“Yeah,” Bree said. Her artist’s brain cataloged the angle of the man’s head, the way his hand tightened on the steering wheel. “Just… looking at the view. The harbor’s so close it feels like you could fall into it.”
“You always did like getting close to the edge of things,” her mom said. “You sure about this? Staying there. Building a life that isn’t two hours down the road.”
Bree watched Hank push off the wall and glance up, checking windows automatically. His gaze found her; he tipped his chin in question. She lifted a hand and gave a small wave, pointing subtly toward the street.
He turned, casual, like he was only stretching. His eyes tracked to the sedan. After a beat, the car pulled away, merging into light traffic and disappearing around the corner.
“I’m sure I need to try,” Bree said, pulling her focus back to the phone. “If I come back now, before I’ve given this a real shot, I think I’ll always wonder what would’ve happened if I’d stayed.”
“And if it doesn’t work?” her mom asked.
“Then I’ll figure something else out,” Bree said. “But right now, when I picture the future, it’s not just me in an apartment full of half-packed boxes and memories. It’s this building. The shop downstairs. The studio up here. Hank. People climbing stairs to see what I made of all this grief.”
“You always did make things out of what hurt,” her mom said softly.
Bree swallowed. “I learned from the best.”
Her mom made another small sound.
“Can you and Dad come down when we get closer?” Bree asked. “I’d like you to see it before it’s finished. Help me decide where the Bryn wall goes.”
“We’d like that,” her mom said. “Your father’s nodding. He says he’ll bring a level.”
Bree laughed. “Of course he will.”
“I know you’re going to be okay,” her mom said. “I just need a little time to catch up to it.”
“Take all the time you need,” Bree said. “I’m not going anywhere for a while.”
“We love you,” her mom said.
“I love you too,” Bree replied.
They hung up. Bree stood there a moment, phone slipping back into her pocket, listening to the building breathe.
Boot steps creaked on the stairs. Hank appeared in the doorway, the light behind him haloing his shoulders.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “They’re… adjusting. My mom’s picturing you and trying really hard not to ask if you have tattoos or a criminal record.”
He smiled. “Do you want to tell her the answer to one of those is yes?”
“Not yet,” she said. “I’ll let you scandalize her in person.”
He crossed the room and leaned his hip against the windowsill beside her. “Guy in the sedan,” he said quietly. “Anything feel off about him to you?”
“My stomach didn’t love it,” she admitted. “But that might’ve just been all the feelings.”
He nodded. “Could be nothing. Could be somebody curious about why four people are standing outside an old warehouse with blueprints. Either way, I got the plate. I’ll send it to Diaz.”
“Awareness, not paranoia,” she said.
“Exactly."
She looked at his profile, the way his jaw worked when he was thinking. “Do you ever get tired of feeling responsible for everything within a fifty-yard radius?”
“Constantly,” he said. “Doesn’t stop me.”
